


i burn easier than you

by OfShoesAndShips



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Breathplay, M/M, Violence, a bit - Freeform, bloodplay kinda, d/s dynamics, dark au, implied murder-y backstory, magic!breathplay, you can tell it's a dark au because their kink practices are very unsafe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 11:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16407746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfShoesAndShips/pseuds/OfShoesAndShips
Summary: When Jonathan Strange leaves, leaving the London house echoingly quiet for the first time in years, Childermass is possessed of a strange desire to be gentle.





	i burn easier than you

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dark au so go carefully. There's a fair amount of blood, oblique talk of murder, and breathplay that goes quite far.

When Jonathan Strange leaves, leaving the London house echoingly quiet for the first time in years, Childermass is possessed of a strange desire to be gentle. The house feels like it’s aged in the minutes between the front door closing and Childermass walking to the library; it feels dusty, dank. More like Hurtfew had when he’d walked into it that first time. He rests his hand on the door, ready to push it open, finds it locked. He can’t tell what impulse drives him to kneel and pick the lock, rather than wait until Norrell rings for him.

While he picks the lock, he wonders. Will Norrell have him follow Strange, have the country’s second magician disappear quietly? He’ll have to advise against that, make Norrell wait a little while first. He’d be lying if he said he’s never planned it.

The lock clicks and the door swings open. It feels even older here; he all but chokes on the feeling of dust. He senses the shift of magic in the air and ducks, closing the door fast enough that the tea tray slams into the oak and drops to the floor with a clatter. He picks it up and puts it on a side table. Only a tea tray – Norrell was hoping for his presence, then.

Norrell is sitting in the armchair by the fire, the shape of him only visible by the shadow he’s casting. Childermass lingers, leaning against the wall by the side table. That urge to be gentle is starting to surface, and he takes half a step forward, jerky.

“I want you to-” Norrell starts.

“I’m not doing anything.”

There’s no second shift of magic, which he realises now he’s been expecting. Nothing rooting him to the floor, nothing taking hold of him. He loosens his neckcloth and drops it on the tea tray, as a precaution.

Norrell’s silence is unsettling. Childermass has the sensation that he’s waiting for an explanation, but Childermass won’t give him one. It’s obvious, the harm it would do to his reputation if Strange vanished tonight.

The firelight flickers but doesn’t douse. Norrell’s shadow shifts. Childermass takes his coat off, rolls his sleeves up. It feels perverse; a mirroring of what he’d be doing if he had followed Strange.

“Childermass.”

A slow, cold feeling overtakes him. For a moment, he thinks Norrell has taken hold of him, but there’s no sensation of magic. Instead he walks forward of his own accord, rests his hand on the back of the armchair.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace, and for a moment he sees another scene: himself, stood as he is standing now, but holding himself differently, less tense. The tea tray, in the mirror, is still on the table by Norrell. Norrell, both here and in the mirror, is crying. Childermass catches his own eyes and looks away first.

“Sir,” he replies.

Norrell sniffs, reaching out blindly. Childermass takes the offered hand, and Norrell’s nails dig hard into his skin.

“He will kill me,” Norrell says.

He seems less hysteric than his words suggest. Childermass, after a moment’s consideration, thinks this is because he’s probably right.

“You’re difficult to kill.”

Norrell grips tighter, and Childermass feels blood drip down his fingers. He could pull his hand away, but that sense of gentleness is digging into his bones and his hand isn’t the only place he can feel a little heat. He spares a glance to the mirror, but all he finds is his own face, the tense crookedness of his mouth and his own wide eyes. He wonders what the other him would think of this, the sharp, stretched lines of honeyed steel that trail from his broken skin to the base of his spine.

Gentleness makes him bow his head and press his mouth to the back of Norrell’s hand. Not a kiss, as such; a gesture of fealty, perhaps. He had thought he was saving that for another, but as he lifts his head again he knows he’s been lying to himself.

He doesn’t know which of them makes him step around the chair; he finds himself startled when Norrell doesn’t let go of his hand as he shifts to stand between Norrell’s knees. Norrell doesn’t look at him, which somehow makes it worse; Childermass can feel something in his back, in his shoulders, trembling. Norrell moves his hand, then; slides it, with pressure, up Childermass’s arm. He understands the signal; if he were feeling more himself, he might make Norrell force him. As it is, Childermass goes easy to his knees.

Norrell doesn’t move. There is no trickle of magic, pushing him this way or that, and he finds he misses it; without that, the heat takes its time, like fine fingers drifting up his neck and into his jaw. Yet still it compels him forward almost as brutally as the magic would, as he rests his bloody hand on Norrell’s thin shoulder and kisses him, kisses him more gently than he ever has.

For a moment, Norrell presses into it; for a moment, a greater, hotter tension settles across Childermass’s shoulders. But the kiss doesn’t break for breath gently; Norrell strikes him, hard enough that there must be magic behind it, and Childermass is kept from falling only by Norrell’s knees pressed hard into his hips.

He wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t braced for it; he touches the corner of his mouth and his hand comes away bloody. Knowing Norrell is watching, he sucks it off.

“What are you doing?” he sounds angry, his voice lower than usual and hoarse. It skitters across Childermass’s skin, buries nails in him.

“If you can’t tell-” the chair creaks and Childermass slackens his mouth, braces his other hand on the edge of the chair, “ _sir-_ ”

Norrell is silent, and for a long moment Childermass thinks he’s going to be ordered away. Part of him wants that, but the rest of him is shivery-sick, taut, stretched with heat. He wonders if his other self would do this; he wonders if the other Norrell would. Childermass lifts his head, rotates his jaw. It’ll bruise. He doesn’t care. Norrell meets his eyes for a second; there is a fury there that embeds itself under Childermass’s skin and burns.

He leans in again, both hands on Norrell’s chest this time, kisses him again with the same gentleness and a little more insistence. The blood he can taste, the blood he’s smearing across Norrell’s mouth, is the only roughness.

Norrell rests his hand on Childermass’s neck; it’s a threat, but Childermass ignores it, breaks for breath and kisses him again, faint and soft, until Norrell digs his nails into the back of Childermass’s neck and pulls him back. Norrell looks sharper, now; his eyes are dark and his mouth is a heavy red. Childermass tips his head back, into Norrell’s hold, closes his eyes, lets out a half-sigh. Norrell shakes him, and he lets himself go with it, lets a tremble overtake him. Norrell hisses, the kind of noise he makes when he doesn’t understand, and Childermass can hear those words hanging between them – _what are you doing?_ – but he ignores them now as he had before. He runs his hands down Norrell’s chest, presses his fingertips in when he reaches Norrell’s hips. It’s a slow gesture, a tease; Norrell lets go of his neck and twists his fist into Childermass’s hair instead, pulling until Childermass opens his mouth; but Childermass whines, too, and Norrell lets go as if he’s been burned.

Childermass takes his chance; he shifts his hands to the chair arms and lifts himself onto the chair, his knees pressed between Norrell’s hips and the arms.

A strand of magic curls through his ribs, pressing in; he leans into the pain, lets it make his eyelids flutter; Norrell is staring at him now, at his still-bleeding lip.

“Childermass-” he starts, a strange weight in his voice.

The strand of magic tightens, and Childermass’s breath catches; it feels like water, pressing on his lungs.

“Hush, sir,” he murmurs, breathless but not showing it. The pressure increases, and he knows Norrell has caught the teasing in his tone. He follows it with a kiss just below Norrell’s ear, a delicate thing, more air than touch.

The pressure on his lungs trembles; the thrill of it pools in his stomach and he shifts in Norrell’s lap. His breath stops; he uses the last of it to moan, right against Norrell’s skin. Norrell grabs the back of his shirt and pulls him back until they’re staring into each other’s faces.

“I should-” Norrell starts, his voice harsh, but he trails off.

Childermass, chest starting to burn, offers nothing. Norrell swipes a line of blood off his chin with a thumb and pushes it into his mouth, not waiting for him to lick it away before he retreats, wiping his hand on Childermass’s skin.

The burn starts to push at him, and his body is starting to tremble. Norrell takes his chin in one hand, looking at him as if he’s something Norrell has suddenly understood.

“You mock me,” he says, in a voice much more like his usual; the tears have faded from it. Childermass half-smiles through the shaking.

The pressure tightens and Childermass shifts again, not quite controlling it this time. He feels lightheaded, slipping into faint; his body seems less his own.

“I should keep you like this,” Norrell says, as Childermass feels himself slacken until Norrell’s hand on his jaw is the only thing keeping him upright, “Biddable looks well on you.”

Childermass tries to struggle, but he feels numb; he could use magic to shove Norrell away, but he can’t quite remember and isn’t sure he wants to.

“If you had not been so cavalier,” Norrell murmurs, “You might have enough breath to plead.”

Childermass closes his eyes and smiles. He hasn’t enough to laugh, but that doesn’t mean he can no longer push.

With a disgusted noise, Norrell tugs the magic away, and Childermass crumples onto the floor, gasping and trembling anew.

“Go upstairs, when you can breathe,” Norrell says, his voice hard, and Childermass staggers to his feet, shaking, breathing hard and shallow.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and goes.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
